PS 
3511 

115 


1914 
M\1N 


UC  NRLF 


B    M    101 


LIBRARY    I 

UNIVERSITY  OP     I 
SCAUFORNIAX/ 


SONNETS  OF 
A  PORTRAIT-PAINTER 


SONNETS  OF 
A  PORTRAIT'PAINTER 


By 

ARTHUR  D AVISO  N  FICKE 


NEW  YORK  AND  LONDON 

MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 
1914 


COPYRIGHT,  I9I4>  BY 
MITCHELL  KENNERLEY 


LOAN  STACK 


PRINTED  BY  VAIL'BALLOU  COMPANY 
BINGHAMTON,  NEW  YORK 


SONNETS  OF 
A  PORTRAIT-PAINTER 


9-. 


I 

EAR  fellow-actor  of  this  little  stage, 
We  play  the   hackneyed  parts   right  mer 
rily, — 

Trifle  with  words  drawn  from  the  poet's  page, 
And  match  our  skill  with  cool  and  conscious  eye. 
All  gracious  gestures  of  each  shining  role 
Have  been  the  garments  of  our  summer  sport.  .  .  . 
But  now,  when  ominous  thunders  shake  my  soul, 
My  reason  gives  of  us  no  high  report.  .  .  . 
I  could  not  mimic  Romeo  had  I  lain 
By  Juliet's  bier  in  bitter  dizzy  truth. 
Henceforth  my  mouthings,  choked,  inept,  and  vain, 
Will  lack  the  light  touch  fitting  amorous  youth. 
Let  fall  the  mask !     Let  end  the  tinselled  play ! 
Ghastly  the  footlights  front  this  sudden  day. 


[9] 


SONNETS    OF    A 

II 

It  needs  no  maxims  drawn  from  Socrates 

To  tell  me  this  is  madness  in  my  blood. 

Nor  does  what  wisdom  I  have  learned  from  these 

Serve  to  abate  my  most  unreasoned  mood. 

What  would  I  of  you?     What  gift  could  you  bring, 

That  to  await  you  in  the  common  street 

Sets  all  my  secret  ecstasy  a-wing 

Into  wild  regions  of  sublime  retreat? 

And  if  you  come,  you  will  speak  common  words, 

Smiling  as  quite  ten  thousand  others  smile — 

And  I,  poor  fool,  shall  thrill  with  ghostly  chords, 

And  with  a  dream  my  sober  sense  beguile. 

And  yet,  being  mad,  I  am  not  mad  alone : 

Alight  you  come !  .  .  .  That  folly  dwarfs  my  own. 


[10] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

III 

Hell's  self  shall  mock  a  brain  that  daily  smears 
Canvases  thus  in  vision-tortured  strife 
To  draw  some  beauty  from  the  bitter  years 
And  cast  some  glow  on  man's  misshapen  life, — 
And  then,  a-sudden,  he  who  thought  to  give 
His  forms  a  beauty  alien  to  man's  clay, 
Finds  in  one  form  that  seems  to  breathe  and  live 
Such  fairness  that  he  throws  his  brush  away ! 
The  recreant  priest  may  some  day  be  forgiven; 
The  soldier  who  has  fled  yet  hopes  to  win; 
The  rich  man  shall  perchance  creep  into  heaven; 
Tannhauser  still  may  purge  him  of  his  sin : — 
But  I  misdoubt  if  any  blossoms  start 
On  his  dead  staff  who  has  betrayed  his  art. 


SONNETS    OF    A 

IV 

A  thousand  walls  immure  your  days, — and  yet 
What  are  they  all  when,  of  the  thousand,  one 
Has  fallen  beneath  the  curious  urge  and  fret 
Of  you  toward  me,  of  me  toward  you  begun? 
When  the  first  fell,  I  shuddered  half-aghast; 
The  second,  now  a-crumble  in  my  sight, 
Predicts  less  thunder  than  the  fall  late  past; 
And  I  await  the  third  with  clear  delight. 
Mingled  with  all  the  phantoms  of  my  fear 
Are  lights  of  utter  lure.     Wherefore  I  choose 
To  linger  watching,  though  right  well  I  bear 
Knowledge  that  naught's  to  gain  and  much  to  lose,- 
And  that  there  is  reserved  Hell's  choicest  flame 
For  pairs  of  fools  who  play  this  silly  game. 


[12] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 


Fate,  with  devoted  and  incessant  care, 

Has  showered  grotesqueness  round  us  day  by  day. 

If  we  turn  grave,  a  hurdy-gurdy's  air 

Is  sure  to  rasp  across  the  words  we  say. 

If  we  stand  tense  on  brink  of  perilous  choices, 

'Tis  never  where  Miltonic  headlands  loom, 

But  mid  the  sound  of  comic-opera  voices 

Or  the  cheap  blaze  of  some  hair-dresser's  room. 

Heaven  knows  what  moonlit  turrets,  hazed  in  bliss, 

Saw  Launcelot  and  night  and  Guinevere ! 

I  only  know  our  first  impassioned  kiss 

Was  in  your  cellar,  rummaging  for  beer.   .   .   . 

The  Sea-born  One  must  hate  us:  but  the  Troll 

Of  modern  life  acclaims  us  from  his  soul ! 


[13] 


SONNETS    OF    A 


VI 

Why  deck  yourself  with  such  unholy  art 

When  none  of  all  this  beauty  is  for  me? 

I  have  two  eyes;  also,  a  living  heart 

That  takes  some  impress  from  the  things  I  see. 

Wherefore,  I  say,  this  cruelty  to-night? — 

When  you  came  forth  in  low-cut  sweeping  dress, 

With  flaming  lips,  pale  shoulders,  eyes  alight, — 

A  cry  of  youth,  a  lamp  of  loveliness ! 

O  what  an  evil  in  you  has  its  nest 

That  my  poor  writhings  should  assuage  your  will ! 

A  serpent  coils  within  your  warm  white  breast 

And  sucks  the  nectar  of  this  flower  of  ill. 

Yet  .   .  .  when  I  come,  meet  me,  as  thus  to-night,- 

With  flaming  lips,  pale  shoulders,  eyes  alight! 


[14] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

VII 

I  sometimes  wonder  if  you  did  not  choose 
Which,  of  the  many  an  uncommingling  state 
Of  man-and-woman  love,  you  best  could  lose, — 
And  hold  the  choice  wisely  inviolate? 
Perhaps  you  said — "Life,  with  its  myriad  jars, 
Would  wreck  us,  linked  together,  into  dust. 
Nor  grow  we  any  nearer  to  the  stars 
By  the  high  constancy  of  sundered  trust. 
Wherefore,  instead  of  separate  deathless  faith,- 
Instead  of  bursts  of  amorous  pulsing  strife, — 
Instead  of  friendship,  that  poor  masked  wraith, - 
Instead  of  the  magnificence  of  joined  life, — 
Let  this  man  give  me,  be  it  boon  or  curse, 
Love's  restless  glances, — and  a  little  verse." 


SONNETS    OF    A 


VIII 

"Farewell!  thou  are  too  dear  for  my  possessing!" 
How  could  he  know,  who  thus  consenting  sung, 
Of  the  white  beauties,  the  shot  gloom  oppressing 
Cloudlike  my  heart  and  tempestlike  my  tongue ! 
For  he  sang  love  when  you  were  uncreate ; 
Nor  all  his  skill  could  pass  the  shore  of  birth 
To  prophesy  you,  come  a  wanderer  late, 
Walking  in  new  and  starry  fire  the  earth. 
Sublime  his  power,  who  could  such  fairness  mould 
Without  this  pattern  set  before  his  eye ! 
His  song  pours  sunward:  mine,  alternate  cold 
And  flame  shake  till  its  chant  becomes  a  cry ! 
Yet  had  he  seen, — then  too  his  subtle  art 
Had  crashed  beneath  the  whirlwinds  of  my  heart! 


[16] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

IX 

Your  beauty  is  as  timeless  as  the  earth; 

All  storied  women  meet  rebloomed  in  you : — 

Yet  with  some  element  of  later  birth, 

Some  savor  strange,  some  light  troubling  and  new. 

You  were  not  possible  until  to-day; 

For  in  your  soul  the  risen  Celtic  wind 

Breathes  audible ;  and  tragic  shadows  grey 

From  dark  Norwegian  winters  tinge  your  mind. 

The  longing  of  young  painters  who  have  been 

Lemans  of  beauty,  and  grown  faint  thereby, — 

The  fierce  unrest  of  toilers  who  have  seen 

Life  as  a  cage  of  steam-shot  agony, — 

All  weave  around  you,  in  the  burning  Now, 

A  lure  undreamed  on  Helen's  Phidian  brow. 


[17] 


SONNETS    OF    A 

X 

Come  forth !  for  Spring  is  singing  in  the  boughs 
Of  every  white  and  tremulous  apple-tree. 
This  is  the  season  of  eternal  vows; 
Yet  what  are  vows  that  they  should  solace  me? 
For  on  the  winds  wild  loveliness  is  crying, 
And  in  all  flowers  wild  joy  its  present  worth 
Proclaims,  as  from  the  dying  to  the  dying — 
"Seize,  clasp  thy  hour  of  sun  upon  the  earth!" 
O  never  dream  that  fire  or  beauty  stays 
More  than  one  April  moment  in  its  flight 
Toward  regions  where  the  sea-drift  of  all  days 
Sinks  in  a  vast,  desireless,  lonely  night. 
Away  with  eternal  vows! — and  give  me  breath 
Of  one  white  hour  here  on  the  marge  of  death! 


[18] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

XI 

Did  not  each  poet  amorous  of  old 

Plead  the  sweet  pretext  of  the  winged  time 

To  urge  his  lady  that  she  be  not  cold 

To  the  dissolving  master  of  that  rhyme? 

I  with  no  new  importunings  address 

One  not  less  proud  and  beautiful  than  they 

Whose  lovers  breathed — "Fleet  is  thy  loveliness; 

Let  not  its  treasure  slip  unused  away." 

Light  hearts !     Light  words !     Here  in  my  transient 

Spring 

Let  them  suffice  to  hide  the  things  unsaid. 
No  shadow  from  the  lonely  deeps  I  bring. 
Nay,  I  with  gayest  flowers  will  wreathe  your  head. 
Here  in  the  sun  I  put  apart  from  me 
Cassandra,  Helen,  and  Persephone. 


[19] 


SONNETS    OF    A 

XII 

Take  you  my  brushes,  child  of  light,  and  lay 
Your  colors  on  the  canvas  as  you  choose : — 
Paint  me  the  soft  glow  of  this  crystal  day; 
My  harder  touch  would  grasp  them  but  to  lose 
The  rose-hung  veils,  the  liquid  golden  flood, — 
I  who  with  palette-knife  must  pry  and  strain 
To  wrench  from  attitude,  face,  figure,  mood, 
A  living  soul  and  limn  its  riddle  plain. 
What  need  you  teachings  of  my  labored  art? 
The  brush  will  serve  your  April  winsomeness. 
Yet  .  .  .  rather  lay  your  head  upon  my  heart — 
Draw  me  to  you  in  a  supreme  caress, — 
That  one  day,  as  I  paint  some  throat  or  hair, 
Spring's  whole  delight  bloom  like  a  marvel  there ! 


[20] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

XIII 

I  am  in  love  with  high  far-seeing  places 
That  look  on  plains  half-sunlight  and  half-storm, — 
In  love  with  hours  when  from  the  circling  faces 
Veils  pass,  and  laughing  fellowship  glows  warm. 
You  who  look  on  me  with  grave  eyes  where  rapture 
And  April  love  of  living  burn  confessed, — 
The  Gods  are  good!     The  world  lies  free  to  cap 
ture! 

Life  has  no  walls.     O  take  me  to  your  breast! 
Take  me, — be  with  me  for  a  moment's  span ! — 
I  am  in  love  with  all  unveiled  faces. 
I  seek  the  wonder  at  the  heart  of  man; 
I  would  go  up  to  the  far-seeing  places. 
While  youth  is  ours,  turn  toward  me  for  a  space 
The  marvel  of  your  rapture-lighted  face ! 


[21] 


SONNETS    OF    A 

XIV 

Joy,  like  a  faun,  her  beautiful  young  head 
Lifted  from  out  the  couches  of  the  grass 
Where,  but  a  moment  since,  pursued  you  fled; 
And  smiled  to  hear  your  tripping  footfall  pass. 
For  two  passed  by, — into  the  meadows  gleaming 
With  evening  light  across  an  amber  stream. 
O  Sweet !     I  marvel  now,  with  all  our  dreaming, 
To  find  the  sweetness  sweeter  than  our  dream. 
Now  we  return;  and  Joy  amid  her  grasses 
Follows  our  steps  with  soft  and  curious  eyes, 
Smiling  to  see,  as  your  light  figure  passes, 
Your  hand  that  in  my  hand  so  quiet  lies. 
Wide  laughing  light  across  the  fields  is  shed.   .  . 
Gravely  Joy  bends  her  beautiful  young  head. 


[22] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

XV 

I  have  seen  beauties  where  light  stabs  the  hills 
Gold-shafted  through  a  cloud  of  rosy  stain. 
I  have  known  splendor  where  the  summer  spills 
Its  tropic  wildness  of  torrential  rain. 
I  have  felt  all  the  free  young  dominance 
Of  winds  that  walk  the  mountains  in  delight 
To  tear  the  tree-trunks  from  their  rooted  stance 
And  make  the  gorges  thunderous  of  their  might. 
The  light,  the  torrents,  and  the  winds,  in  you 
I  thought  I  had  perceived  to  kinship  grown. 
It  was  a  dream.     Until  this  hour,  I  knew 
Nothing — nay,  nothing  all  my  days  have  known 
Where  beauty,  splendor,  freedom,  held  such  part 
As  when  you  came, — and  swept  me  to  your  heart, 


[23] 


SONNETS    OF    A 

XVI 

It  was  the  night,  the  night  of  all  my  dreams. 

Across  the  lofty  spaces  of  that  room 

You  stole;  and  where  the  moonlight's  silver  streams 

Cloudily  slanted  in  upon  the  gloom, 

More  silver  radiance  met  them  where  you  moved; 

And  all  the  beauty  of  that  hazed  west, 

Wherein  the  moon  was  sinking,  lay  approved 

Because  thus  lay  your  pale,  slow-curving  breast. 

I  shall  remember, — aye,  when  death  must  cover 

My  soul  and  body  with  its  rayless  tide, — 

The  madness  and  the  peace  of  that  wild  lover 

Drunken  with  life's  whole  wonder  at  your  side. 

I  shall  remember  in  life's  stormiest  deep, — 

Even  as  that  night  I  knew  you  there  in  sleep. 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

XVII 

O  rare  and  holy,  O  taper  lit  for  me 
Before  vast  altars  in  the  lonely  dark, — 
Without  your  gleam,  dim  were  my  soul  to  see 
Where  in  star-spaces,  imperial  and  stark 
And  sacrosanct,  his  ancient  throned  reign 
God  holds  o'er  stars  and  swallows  as  of  yore; 
Up  through  his  Gothic  vault  I  yearned  in  vain 
And  turned  back  baffled  from  him  evermore. 
In  secular  joys  I  must  interpret  heaven; 
In  ecstasies  profane  I  must  embrace 
His  glory, — seek  in  revels  lightning-riven 
All  I  shall  ever  witness  of  his  face, — 
And  in  wild  flight,  with  passion  winged  and  shod, 
Circle  and  beat  the  citadel  of  God. 


[25] 


SONNETS    OF    A 

XVIII 

The  entrails  of  a  cat, — some  rusty  wood, — 
Certain  pegs,  pins,  in  curious  manner  bent, — 
These  yield  the  spirit  in  its  singing  mood 
The  one  supreme  heaven-scaling  instrument. 
And  I,  who  rate  man's  clay  not  overmuch, 
Marvel  not  more  when  from  the  bow-swept  strings 
Celestial  music  soars,  than  when  we  touch 
From  mortal  flesh  strains  of  immortal  things. 
To  worlds  beyond  the  world  of  its  resort 
The  viol  uplifts  its  ecstasy  or  despair. — 
O  love,  who  knows  what  white  Hyperian  court 
Welcomes  our  spirits,  through  the  cloven  air 
Rising,  beyond  the  instrument  set  free 
On  the  wild  wings  of  loosened  melody? 


[26] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

XIX 

Strange !  to  remember  that  I  late  was  fain 

To  yield  death  back  my  poor  undated  lease, 

So  wearied  had  I  at  life's  gate  in  vain 

Asked  wonders,  and  been  doled  not  even  peace. 

I  had  grown  sceptic  of  the  exalted  will 

That  wins  not  ever  nearer  to  its  aim. 

Grey  seemed  all  lures,  all  calling  voices  still; 

Rest  only  seemed  salvation  .   .   .  Then  you  came 

And  filled  my  dusk  with  stars.     I  understood 

At  last  what  coward  languor  had  been  mine. 

And  as  your  sweetness  stung  my  brain  and  blood 

Like  the  wild  rapture  of  some  winged  wine 

I  stormed  the  gates  that  crusts  to  beggars  give ! 

Life  decks  its  halls  for  him  who  dares  to  live. 


[27] 


SONNETS    OF    A 

XX 

Ah,  life  is  good !     And  good  thus  to  behold 

From  far  horizons  where  their  tents  are  furled 

The  mighty  storms  of  Being  rise,  unfold, 

Mix,  strike,  and  crash  across  a  shaken  world: — 

Good  to  behold  their  trailing  rearguards  pass, 

And  feel  the  sun  renewed  its  sweetness  send 

Down  to  the  sparkling  leaf-blades  of  the  grass, 

And  watch  the  drops  fall  where  the  branches  bend. 

I  think  to-day  I  almost  were  content 

To  hear  some  bard  life's  epic  story  tell, — 

To  view  the  stage  through  some  small  curtain-rent, 

Mere  watcher  at  this  gorgeous  spectacle. 

But  now  the  curtain  lifts: — my  soul's  swift  powers 

Rise  robed  and  crowned — for  lo !  the  play  is  ours ! 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

XXI 

To-day,  grown  rich  with  what  I  late  have  won, 

Across  the  dusk  I  reach  my  hand  to  you. 

Cold  as  a  leaf  long  pillowed  on  a  stone 

Your  hand  takes  mine,  like  something  strange  and 

new. 

So  soon  grown  careless?  .  .  .  No,  for  in  your  eyes 
A  tenderness  still  lives,  half-shy,  half-bold  .  .  . 
Then  sudden  wisdom  to  my  trouble  cries : 
I  know  you  still  my  love,  but  not  the  old. 
That  which  I  loved  and  won  now  all  is  gone; 
She  was  an  hour,  a  moment,  a  swift  mood, — 
Vanished  forever  into  deeps  unknown, — 
And  a  new  creature  rules  your  brain  and  blood. 
Yesterday  you  were  mine,  beloved  and  fair; 
To-day  I  seek, — another  love  is  there. 


[29] 


SONNETS    OF    A 

XXII 

I  see  the  days  stretch  out  in  wavering  line 
Toward  that  sure  day  when  we  shall  lie  in  mould. 
What  fate,  I  wonder,  sordid  or  divine, 
Within  their  close-shut  hands  for  us  they  hold? 
We  have  walked  with  the  winds  in  chasmy  places, 
And  been  as  birds  down  sea-born  tempests  flung, — 
Seen  joy  and  wonder  on  each  other's  faces, 
And  learned  that  life  is  maddening  still,  and  young. 
Will  the  slow  days  cancel, — or  reconcile, — 
These  with  more  sober  meanings  that  they  bring? 
Shall  we  part  bitter,  or  with  humorous  smile, 
Or  with  heart-rent  tragic  remembering? — 
Or  sink  in  friendship,  each  a  tired  guest 
Who  finds  the  dreamless  fireside-slumber  best? 


[30] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

XXIII 

There  stretch  between  us  wonder-woven  bonds, 

Fine  as  a  thread  but  strong  as  braided  steel, — 

A  link  that  to  each  changing  need  responds, 

Nor  binds  the  butterfly  upon  the  wheel. 

For  the  coarse  bondage  sanctioned  of  men's  law 

I    would    not,    though    I    could,    these    gossamers 

change, — 

Give  time  and  circumstance  that  leave  to  draw 
Closer  the  net  till  nearness  must  estrange! 
And  yet  a  longing  restless  in  me  burns 
To  lock  what  never  might  the  lock  endure : — 
As  a  glad  sailor,  sea-impassioned,  yearns 
That  what  he  loves  for  being  unsure,  were  sure, — 
That  the  fierce  doubtful  splendor  of  bright  foam 
Might  somehow,  fierce  and  doubtful,  light  him  home. 


[31] 


SONNETS    OF    A 

XXIV 

Now  jewelled,  alight,  you  lead  the  midnight  dances. 
A  thousand  eyes,  a  hundred  hearts  are  yours. 
In  the  great  hall,  the  splendor  of  your  glances 
With  beauty's  secret  promise  lights  and  lures. 
They  flock  to  you;  you  smile;  they  press  around  you 
And  crave  your  favors  each  with  satyr  smile. 
Does  your  look  lie,  or  do  they  truly  sound  you 
With  flatteries  that  your  warming  heart  beguile? 
See — the  low,  lustful,  thinly-masked  faces! 
They  crowd  about  you,  drinking  in  your  bloom. 
In  fancy,  each  a  taxi  calls,  and  races 
With  you  to  his  own  Sybaritic  room.   .  .  . 
I  sit  alone  beneath  my  desk-lamp's  glare, 
Cursing  the  fate  that  made  you  mine,  and  fair. 


[32] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

XXV 

You  are  unworthy  any  man's  desires. 
I  do  suspect  you  of  a  thousand  ills — 
For  little  moths  setting  your  little  fires — 
Haughty  to  high,  servient  to  baser  wills. 
Rank !  that  the  meanest  prancer  in  your  train 
Can  stir  with  languid  love  of  lure  your  mood. 
Is  it  your  weak  pleasure,  or  his  weaker  pain, 
That  gives  sweet  sustenance  in  this  poor  food? 
You  have  seen  visions  of  high  luminous  dawn 
Coming  to  work  a  miracle  in  your  heart: — 
But  now  are  veils  across  your  watching  drawn 
Lest  faith  in  viewless  wonders  plague  your  art. 
This  light  vain  woman !     What  fit  lash  it  were 
Could  I  reveal  the  dream  I  held  of  her! 


[33] 


SONNETS    OF    A 

XXVI 

What  is  he  but  a  common  gutter-cur, 

A  chattering  mountebank,  obese  and  base? 

And  yet  perhaps  your  judgment  may  prefer 

His  grinning  to  my  thin  and  furrowed  face. 

My  rival !   .  .  .  Faugh !  the  word  burns  on  my  lips, 

Acknowledging  equality,  in  that  breath, 

With  him  who  is  my  equal  but  where  slips 

All  form  from  life,  and  men  are  one  in  death. 

He  is  with  you  now : — what  words  now  from  him 

fall? 

What  answering  smile  lights  your  alluring  eyes? 
Madness  leers  at  me,  as  my  thoughts  recall 
The  love  that  late  between  us  cried, — and  cries !  .  .  . 
Well,  go !     My  mirth  goes  with  you,  who  might  be 
A  lamp  of  earth,  a  bright  star  from  the  sea. 


[34] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

XXVII 

Over  profoundest  deeps,  light  lacy  foam 
Plays  where  the  sun-world  frontiers  meet  the  sea's. 
And  in  the  deeps,  slow  gulf-tides  have  their  home, 
Nor  is  the  foam-crest  utterant  of  these. 
Sail  the  bright  surface  on  a  Summer's  day, 
And  you  shall  dream  along  each  smiling  crest, 
Making  the  waves  companions  of  your  play, 
Blind  to  the  glooms  within  the  ocean's  breast. 
But  when  grey  weather  muffles  up  the  blue, 
And  thundering  voices  rise  from  hollow  deeps, 
And  coldly  drooping  wraith-mist  out  of  view 
Inviolate  the  ancient  mystery  keeps, — 
Then  would  you  know  the  secret  ocean-world, 
Then    dive ! — a    plummet    through    vast    shadows 
hurled. 


[35] 


SONNETS    OF    A 


XXVIII 

You  are  not  peace,  you  are  not  happiness; 

I  look  not  on  you  with  content  or  trust; 

Nor  is  there  in  you  aught  with  power  to  bless 

Or  heal  my  spirit  weary  of  life's  dust. 

Nay,  you  are  that  which,  on  a  leaden  day, 

As  endless  clouds  sluggish  with  rain  pass  by, 

Leaps  brilliant  once  across  the  sullen  grey, 

A  vivid  lightning-gleam  in  that  dead  sky. 

And  I,  whose  days  of  sun  or  cloud  have  grown 

Changelessly  furled  in  one  grey  monstrous  pall, — 

I  thirst  for  fierce  lights,  triumphs,  trumpets  blown, 

And  you,  most  wild  and  passionate  of  all, — 

You,  the  bright  madness  lightening  the  curse 

Of  reason's  dull  reign  in  the  universe. 


[36] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

XXIX 

In  the  fair  picture  of  my  life's  estate 
Which  long  ago  my  yearning  fancy  drew 
From  hints  of  poets,  prophets,  lords  of  fate, 
What  place  is  there,  beloved  one,  for  you? 
How  in  this  edifice  of  the  soaring  dome, 
Noble,  harmonious,  lifted  toward  the  stars, 
Shall  I  carve  forth  a  niche  to  be  the  home 
Of  you  and  of  my  love  that  round  you  wars? 
Ah,  folly  his,  who  builds  him  such  a  house 
Too  early,  by  impatient  visions  led, 
Ere  he  can  know  what  blood  shall  stain  his  brows, 
And  from  what  troubled  streams  his  heart  is  fed. 
Now  must  he  labor,  in  late  night,  alone 
To  wreck, — and  then  rebuild  it,  stone  by  stone. 


[37] 


SONNETS    OF    A 

XXX 

You  mean,  my  friend,  you  do  not  greatly  care 

For  these  harsh  portraits  I  have  lately  done? 

You  like  my  old  style  better, — like  the  rare 

Enamelled  softness  of  that  princess-one? 

True,  this  old  woman,  with  the  sunken  throat 

Painted  like  cordage,  is  not  sweet  to  view. 

Perhaps  the  blear  whites  of  her  eyes  connote 

No  element  of  loveliness  to  you. 

Ah  yes,  we  all  must  love  the  sapphire  lake, 

The  rainbow,  and  the  rose, — but  these  alone? 

Or  is  there  some  slight  wonder  where  pines  shake 

On  bare-ribbed  mountain-peaks  of  shattered  stone? 

So  these  disturb?     I  fear  this  is  the  end 

Of  days  when  I  shall  please  your  taste,  my  friend. 


[38] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

XXXI 

Strange    modern    world    wherein    our    days    are 

passed, — 

Perplexed  with  all  its  riches, — stung  by  greed 
For  what  it  scarce  can  use, — restless  where  vast 
Its  domination  cloaks  a  bitter  need! — 
What    warring    powers    have    here    their    tourney 

spread, 

Wherein  each  sundered  destiny  must  wage 
Its  own  internal  struggle,  while  each  head 
Bleeds  in  the  general  battle  of  the  age ! 
And  over  all  the  seething,  where  the  powers 
Storm  on  their  prisons, — where  the  unborn  breaks 
Its  shell, — where  crash  the  rending  moulding  hours, 
And  nations  reel,  and  every  bosom  shakes, — 
Rises,  a  spectre  on  this  field  of  strife, 
Its  faltering,  fierce,  unconquered  will  to  life ! 


[39] 


SONNETS    OF    A 

XXXII 

"Are  you  the  same?     You  love  me  as  of  old?" 
Lady,  my  love  has  turned  from  you  no  jot. 
"Why  lie  to  me?     Your  lip  curls  strangely  cold." 
Lady,  I  tell  you  all.      My  love  has  not 
Abated  by -one  hair's-breadth:  but  to-day 
The  world  seems  not  so  worthy  of  my  hate ; 
And  in  life's  dusty  whirl  of  earthquake-play 
A  fairness  glimmers  that  I  saw  not  late. 
Therefore  to  me,  this  day,  you  are  not  all; 
Hopes  and  desires,  in  tumult  long  repressed, 
Unto  my  ears  send  an  articulate  call, 
And  faith  in  living  rules  once  more  my  breast. 
"How  interesting  is  life ! — when  love  grows  cold. 
Beware  if  ever  you  love  me  as  of  old!"  .  .  . 


[401 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

XXXIII 

To-day  put  by  the  tumult  of  our  wars, 
Where, — strangely  sexless  in  that  struggle, — vie 
Our  spirits,  meeting  mid  the  armored  jars, 
Eager  to  thwart,  to  torture,  to  defy. 
Our  souls  were  born  for  hostile  dalliance. 
And  you,  if  onslaught  of  your  malice  fail, 
Abase  yourself,  fain  in  my  wounded  glance 
To  read  exultant  that  your  stings  prevail. 
And  yet,  to-day,  bar  me  not  from  my  own. 
Lo !  I  yield  all  surrender  that  is  yours. 
For  we  are  weary;  and,  each  one  alone, 
We  front  a  world  whose  loneliness  endures. 
And  there  seem  hours  when  o'er  an  evening  deep 
We  might  drift  home  ...  I  knew  not  you  could 
weep! 


[41] 


SONNETS    OF    A 

XXXIV 

I  have  not  brought  you  asphodel,  or  laid 

Before  you  any  pearl  of  happy  prize. 

We  have  been  as  great  eagles,  unafraid 

Circling  and  grappling  through  tremendous  skies. 

But  evening  closes;  and  the  tired  wing 

Slants  downward  in  slow  earth-approaching  flight. 

Over  the  regions  of  our  voyaging 

Are  drawn  the  holy  curtains  of  the  night. 

O  weary  one  !     O  pitiful  waif  of  space ! 

Here  gleams  the  haven  to  our  troubled  quest; 

This  is  the  land  sought  of  your  yearning  face; 

This  is  the  house  dreamed  of  my  lonely  breast. 

We  who  have  known  all  agonies  and  all  bliss, — 

Can  it  then  be  we  shall  know  happiness? 


[42] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

XXXV 

Now,  O  beloved,  in  this  pausing  hour 

When  peace,  like  a  great  river's  twilight  flow, 

Isles  us  about  from  every  alien  power, 

And  all  that  hearts  can  know  at  last  we  know,  — 

Now  let  me  speak  words  that  within  my  breast 

Have  long,  too  long,  dim  to  your  passing  view 

Lain  darkling,  by  a  thousand  storms  oppressed, — 

Now  let  me  speak  my  holy  love  of  you. 

The  topless  peaks,  the  pure  unclouded  skies 

That  dwell  remote  within  your  spirit  furled 

I  have  not  sung;  and  yet  they  filled  my  eyes, 

Or  how  else  had  I  sought  you  through  the  world? 

My  humors  and  my  madness,  fierce  or  cold, 

I  have  told  you  all :  my  love  I  have  not  told. 


[43] 


SONNETS    OF    A 

XXXVI 

Fields  far  below  us, — silence  in  the  wood, — 

Gold   slanting  rays   down  through  green  branches 

shed, — 

You,  clear  against  the  hazy  golden  flood, — 
And  in  your  voice  the  summer  as  you  said: 
"I  loved  you  once  because  a  dream  had  come 
Of  what  you  might  be, — and  that  was  not  you. 
And  once  I  hated,  since  my  heart  was  numb 
With  pain  to  know  my  perfect  hope  untrue. 
And  once  to  make  you  other  than  you  were 
I  would  have  mounted  Calvary  on  bent  knees. 
But  now, — dear  lover  whom  such  tempests  stir, — 
I  am  forever  done  with  all  of  these. 
My  love  is  yours : — be  tender,  fierce,  or  strange, — 
You  still  are  you,  unchanged  through  every  change." 


[44] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

XXXVII 

Through  vales  of  Thrace,  Peneus'  stream  is  flowing 
Past  legend-peopled  hillsides  to  the  deep; 
From  Paestum's  rose-hung  plains  soft  winds  are  blow 
ing; 

The  halls  of  Amber  lie  in  haunted  sleep ; 
The  Cornish  sea  is  silent  with  the  Summer 
That  once  bore  Iseult  from  the  Irish  shore; 
And  lovely  lone  Fiesole  is  dumber 
Than  when  Lorenzo's  garland-guests  it  wore. 
This  eve  for  us  the  emerald  clearness  glowing 
Over  the  stream,  where  late  was  ruddy  might, 
Whispers  a  wonder,  dumb  to  other  knowing, — 
Known  but  to  you,  the  silence,  and  the  night. 
Our  boat  drifts  breathless  the  last  light  is  dying; 
Stars,  dawn,  shall  find  us  here  together  lying. 


[45] 


SONNETS    OF    A 


XXXVIII 

Low  suns  and  moons,  long  days  and  spacious  nights, 

With  majesty  move  by  us;  and  in  state, 

Like  buskined  actors  treading  tragic  heights, 

Enlarge  the  measure  of  our  common  fate. 

Across  the  great  gold-hazed  afternoon 

Drifts  deeper  meaning  than  our  thought  can  prove; 

And  happy  dusks  and  happy  dawns  too  soon 

Beyond  our  sight  in  calm  procession  move. 

Dear,  hospitable,  grows  the  murmuring  earth; 

As  lords  at  home, — masters  returned  from  wars, — 

Rule  we  this   realm  whose   summer-throned  worth 

Admits  no  craving  for  the  distant  stars. 

Close   suns   and  moons,   wide  nights   and  spacious 

days, — 
The  Gods  once  sojourned  in  these  earthly  ways  I 


[46] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 


XXXIX 

I  held  no  trust  in  this,  that  it  should  last ! 
Of  no  malignant  fates  stand  I  the  sport. 
If  any  memory  plague  me  with  the  past, 
I  of  most  clear  foreknowledge  make  retort. 
What  are  the  powers  that  in  earth's  centre  live 
That  such  a  dream  as  ours  they  should  permit? 
Why,  Heaven  itself  would  have  no  more  to  give 
If  Hell  allow  we  should  not  wake  from  it! 
Dreaming,  I  saw  beyond  the  curtained  dream, — 
Half-conscious  ever  of  the  stubborn  day 
Waiting  to  smite  our  turrets,  high  a-gleam, 
With  armored  siege  of  hurtling  ray  on  ray. — 
What  would  you  have,  dear  lady? — who  for  love 
Did  ask  the  world  that  from  its  course  it  move? 


[47] 


SONNETS    OF    A 

XL 

Well,  now  they  know !  the  world's  malicious  arms 
Like  snakes  stretch  out,  like  pistons  batter  down. 
Toward  us  the  missiles  of  a  thousand  harms 
Are  sped;  our  names  delight  the  leering  town. 
Corrupt  Don  Juans  of  the  midnight  mart 
To  their  lean  spouses  mouth  our  infamy. 
Wantons, — whose  sins,  of  flesh  and  not  of  heart, 
Leave  them  unscathed, — prove  virtue,  passing  by. 
Ah,  could  we  flee  the  world's  whole  vile  intent! 
Might  we  but  face  it, — bid  it  do  its  worst! 
Yet  vain  the  flight,  and  vain  the  argument. 
For  the  world's  baseness  are  we  made  accursed. 
O  love,  bow  down !     Weep  for  the  people's  sin ! 
The  world,  the  flesh,  the  devil,  always  win ! 


[48] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

XLI 

What  Beatrice  was,  so  much  you  are 

To  me  now  wandering  with  an  exile's  eyes 

In  regions  whence  no  road  to  paradise 

Mounts,  and  the  solace  glimmers  of  no  star. 

There  stretch  between  us  gulfs  of  many  a  war; 

The  ancient  hills  to  sunder  us  arise. 

And  yet  I  crave,  from  Fate  that  all  denies, 

You  near  in  dream,  who  are  in  truth  so  far.  .  .  . 

"Though  all  the  powers  that  thwart  your  life  and 

mine 

Thereto  consent,  yet  can  I  never  be 
Your  Beatrice.     I  can  never  shine 
Pale,  starry  in  your  heaven :  nay,  unto  me 
One  lot  alone  my  stormy  Fates  assign — 
To  leave  you, — or  to  clasp  you  utterly!" 


[49] 


SONNETS    OF    A 


XLII 

What!  shall  all  thwartings  of  malignant  chance 
Set  any  bar  to  this  impassioned  trust? 
I  will  assail  these  gates  of  circumstance 
And  break  their  iron  hinges  to  the  dust. 
Nay!  are  you  pallid  in  the  eye  of  the  sun? 
Do  cold  winds  blow  you  from  the  midmost  fire? 
Or  does  the  journey  ere  'tis  well  begun 
Speak  with  less  eager  lure  to  your  desire? 
Your  look  corrodes  the  metal  of  my  heart. 
Are  we  then  tainted  with  a  pallid  cast 
Of  ghostly  moonlight?     All  the  foes  that  start 
From  ambush  do  not  fright  me  as  this  last, 
This  sudden  web  of  weakness  round  us  grown. 
One  gate  we  cannot  storm.     It  is  our  own.  .  . 


[50] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

XLIII 

Pale  star  whose  light  is  dearer  than  all  days, — 
Whose  beam  I  can  approach  but  to  eclipse, — 
Whose  glow  I  can  but  darken  when  your  praise 
In  half-unconscious  singing  stirs  my  lips, — 
Propitious  do  I  deem  the  leagues  of  night 
That  sunder  me  from  regions  where  you  are. 
Ere  I  would  quench  one  glad  ray  of  your  light, 
I  would  that  you  were  still  my  unknown  star. 
When  in  the  future  days  I  draw  not  nigh 
And  mar  no  more  calm  skies  where  you  are  set, 
Think  not  my  night  of  memory  has  gone  by; — 
And,  silent  star,  let  not  your  heart  forget. — 
Let  sometime,  somewhere,  one  clear  midnight  be 
When  you  revisit  this  dark  troubled  sea. 


[51] 


SONNETS    OF    A 

XLIV 

When  men  no  longer  hear  the  sunrise-hail 
Of  Cytherea  from  her  sapphire  bays, — 
When  troubadour-romance  grows  ghastly  pale 
In  death,  and  love  has  come  on  doubtful  days, — 
When  harlots  walk  the  streets  enticing  lust, 
And  dull  convenience  seals  the  marriage  bond, 
And  love  scarce  knows  itself  from  friendly  trust, 
And  restless  hearts   strain  toward  some   fresh  be 
yond, — 

In  such  an  hour,  vex  not  with  idle  blame 
The  wreck  of  two,  adrift  where  windy  moods 
Trouble  the  deep.     Look  inward!  let  the  flame 
Reveal  if  moths  have  spared  your  treasured  goods. 
And  he  whose  hopes  are  bright  and  sure,  alone 
Let  him  take  up  the  first  accusing  stone. 


[52] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

XLV 

A  world  of  beauty  and  a  reign  of  law — 

A  glimpse  of  life's  obscure  authentic  lord — 

A  link  from  mote  to  planet, — these  with  awe 

The  saint  and  lover  crave,  in  deep  accord. 

Yet  must  the  lover  ofttimes  turn  aside 

From   where   the    saint,    sure    of   his   truth,   would 

bound 

Powers  that,  beyond  known  confines  circling  wide, 
The  unproved  dominance  of  his  dream  confound. 
Sometimes  across  the  vastness  of  free  sky, 
Beyond  the  orbit  of  life's  charted  world, 
A  wandering  spectre  of  the  dark  goes  by — 
A  flaming  comet  out  of  chaos  hurled: — 
And  wise  men  doubt  their  wisdom,  as  that  light 
Plunges     unknown     down     chasms     of     boundless 

night.  .  .  . 


[53] 


SONNETS    OF    A 

XLVI 

There  is  a  love  that  bursts  all  hindering  bars, 
And  soars  on  pinions  of  authentic  might 
To  glad  communion  with  its  sister-stars, 
Needing  no  guidance  save  its  own  pure  light. 
But  ere  it  break  the  prison  of  its  fears, 
Some  kinship  with  the  heavens  must  touch  its  soul,- 
Or,  past  the  wreckage  of  the  shattered  years, 
It  shall  drift  alien  where  calm  splendors  roll.   .  .  . 
There  is  a  love  born  of  an  exile's  heart, — 
That  shares  not  in  love's  universal  breath, — 
That  craves  not  all  life's  beauty,  but  one  part 
From  the  rest  sundered.     And  its  way  is  death. 
Yet  as  through  night  its  dying  gleam  sweeps  by, 
It  mocks  the  earth, — it,  pilgrim  of  the  sky. 


[54] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

XLVII 

Seldom  the  powers  of  heaven  or  hell  declare 
To  strangers,  meeting,  of  their  rank  and  name. 
The  great  archangel  hosts  no  aureoles  wear, 
And  Satan's  minions  prance  ungirt  of  flame. 
In  vesture  undemonstrative  they  come 
And  stand  like  mighty  shadows  at  the  gate, 
Their  eyes  subdued,  their  eloquent  voices  dumb, 
Their  hands  concealed  that  hold  such  turns  of  fate. 
Greet  thou  the  stranger !  give  him  of  thy  best, 
As  fits  the  pilgrim  of  an  unknown  day. 
Then  when  thy  board  is  emptied  of  its  guest, 
And  o'er  the  hills  that  vast  form  stalks  away, 
Evening,  mayhap,  across  thy  door  shall  fall 
Ere  thou  know  sure  what  garments  swept  thy  hall. 


[ss] 


SONNETS    OF    A 


XLVIII 

The  clouds  that  steal  across  the  sun  of  June 
Are  swift;  and  out  of  them  the  sun  comes  free. 
The  mists  that  drift  beneath  the  flying  moon 
Reveal  new  brightness  of  her  wizardry. 
Not  so  the  shadows  that  on  the  spirit  fall, 
Moving  like  torrents  that  wind  the  mountain-steep. 
Down  from  the  slopes  they  bear  beyond  recall 
Earth  and  flowers;  their  pathway  is  graven  deep. 
They  wear  the  iron  rock;  they  change  the  hills; 
The  slopes  are  torn;  the  peaks  fall;  the  vales  flood 

wide. 

And  when  the  waters  cease,  and  sound  of  rills 
Remains,  the  battle's  echo,  down  the  mountain-side, 
Passers-by  shall  marvel,  in  far-off  days — 
"Here  lie  forever  the  torrent's  ancient  ways!" 


[56] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

XLIX 

There  is  a  sickness  in  my  channelled  blood, — 

Not  of  the  spirit  or  the  mind  alone, 

Outlasting  far  the  dominance  of  a  mood, 

Eating  corrosive  into  flesh  and  bone. 

And  what  shall  medicine  this  mortal  ill 

I  know  not,  nor  the  surgeons  truly  know. 

They  tap  and  peer  and  pry  their  foolish  fill, — 

But  still  the  dizzy  humors  ebb  and  flow. 

And  yet  I  somehow  feel  that  did  you  lay 

Your  hand  upon  my  heart  and  bid  it  beat, 

There  might  come  back  my  youth's  unwearied  day, 

And  all  the  world-paths  call  my  healed  feet. 

For  in  a  world  where  soul  and  body  mesh, 

Surely  so  much  the  spirit  may  mould  the  flesh? 


[57] 


SONNETS    OF    A 


I  needs  must  know  that  in  the  days  to  come 

No  child  that  from  our  Summer  sprang  shall  be 

To  give  our  voices  when  the  lips  are  dumb 

That  lingering  breath  of  immortality. 

Nay,  all  our  longing  compassed  not  such  hope, 

Nor  did  we,  in  our  flame-shot  passagings, 

Push  the  horizon  of  our  visions'  scope 

To  regions  of  these  far  entangled  things. 

I  knew  not  such  desire.     But  now  I  know. — 

O  perfect  body !     O  wild  soul  a-flower ! 

We,  wholly  kindled  by  life's  whitest  glow, 

Turned  barren  from  our  life-commanding  hour.   . 

Now  while  I  dream,  sweetness  of  that  desire 

Lies  on  my  heart  like  veils  of  parching  fire.  .  . 


[58] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

LI 

What  if  some  lover  in  a  far-off  Spring, 
Down  the  long  passage  of  a  hundred  years, 
Should  breathe   his   longing  through   the   words   I 

sing — 

And  close  the  book,  dazed  by  a  woman's  tears? 
Does  it  mean  aught  to  you  that  such  might  be?  .   .   . 
Ah !  we  far-seekers !   .  .  .  Solely  thus  were  proved 
From  dream  to  deed  the  souls  of  you  and  me; — 
Thus  only  were  it  real  that  we  had  loved. 
Grey   ghosts   blown   down   the    desolate    moors    of 

time! 

Poor  wanderers,  lost  to  any  hope  of  rest! 
Joined  by  the  measure  of  a  faltering  rhyme ! 
Sundered  by  deep  division  of  the  breast! — 
Sundered  by  all  wherein  we  both  have  part; 
Joined  by  the  far-world  seeking  of  each  heart. 


[59] 


SONNETS    OF    A 

LII 

This  is  a  record  of  what  has  not  been, 
Is  not,  and  never  while  time  lasts  can  be. 
It  is  a  tale  of  lights  down  rain-gusts  seen, — 
Of  midnight  argent  mad  moon-archery. 
Ah,  life  that  vexes  all  men  plagued  us  most! 
And  made  us  motes  in  winds  that  blew  from  far,- 
Credulous  of  the  whispers  of  a  ghost, — 
Fain  of  the  light  of  some  long-quenched  star. 
What  were  you  that  I  loved  you?     What  was  I 
That  I  perturbed  you?     Shapes  of  restless  sleep! 
A  shadow  from  a  cloud  that  hurried  by, — 
A  ripple  of  great  powers  that  stirred  the  deep. 
And  we,  too  supple  for  life's  storms  to  break, 
Writhed  at  a  dream's  touch,  for  a  shadow's  sake ! 


[60] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

LIII 

There  are  strange  shadows  fostered  of  the  moon, 
More  numerous  than  the  clear-cut  shade  of  day.  . 
Go  forth,  when  all  the  leaves  whisper  of  June, 
Into  the  dusk  of  swooping  bats  at  play, — 
Or  go  into  that  late  November  dusk 
When  hills  take  on  the  noble  lines  of  death, 
And  on  the  air  the  faint  astringent  musk 
Of  rotting  leaves  pours  vaguely  troubling  breath.- 
Then  shall  you  see  shadows  whereof  the  sun 
Knows  nothing, — aye,  a  thousand  shadows  there 
Shall  leap  and  flicker  and  stir  and  stay  and  run, 
Like  petrels  of  the  changing  foul  or  fair, — 
Like  ghosts  of  twilight,  of  the  moon,  of  him 
Whose  homeland  lies  past  each  horizon's  rim.  .  , 


[61] 


SONNETS    OF    A 


LIV 

Across  the  shaken  bastions  of  the  year 
March  drives  his  windy  chariot-wheels  of  cold. 
Somewhere,  they  tell  me,  Spring  is  waiting  near.   . 
But  all  my  heart  is  with  things  grey  and  old: — 
Reliques  of  other  Aprils,  that  are  blown 
Recklessly  up  and  down  the  barren  earth; 
Mine  the  dull  grasses  by  the  Winter  mown, 
And  the  chill  echoes  of  forgotten  mirth. 
Spring  comes,  but  not  for  me.     I  know  the  sign 
And  feel  it  alien.     I  am  of  an  age 
That  passes.     All  the  blossoms  that  were  mine 
Lie  trampled  now  beneath  December's  rage. 
Ye  children  of  the  Spring, — may  life  be  sweet! 
For  me,  the  world  crumbles  beneath  my  feet. 


[62] 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

LV 

They  brought  me  tidings;  and  I  did  not  hear 

More  than  a  fragment  of  the  words  they  said. 

Their  further  speech  died  dull  upon  my  ear; 

For  my  rapt  spirit  otherwhere  had  fled — 

Fled  unto  you  in  other  times  and  places. 

Old  memories  winged  about  me  in  glad  flight. 

I  saw  your  lips  of  longing  and  delight, — 

Your  grave  glad  eyes  beyond  their  chattering  faces. 

I  saw  a  world  where  you  have  been  to  me 

More  than  the  sun,  more  than  the  wakening  wind. 

I  saw  a  brightness  that  they  could  not  see. 

And  yet  I  seemed  as  smitten  deaf  and  blind. 

I  heard  but  fragments  of  the  words  they  said. 

Life  wanes.     The  sunlight  darkens.     You  are  dead. 


[63] 


SONNETS    OF    A 

LVI 

Out  of  the  dusk  into  whose  gloom  you  went, 
Answer  me,  tell  me,  why  you  chose  to  go? 
Why  did  you  seek  that  far-strewn  firmament? 
Was  loneliness  not  keen  enough  below? 
Did  some  old  wrong  affright  you?     Some  new  ill? 
Did  one  more  bloom  that  lured  you  turn  to  dust? 
What  spur  could  goad  that  lovely  weary  will, 
What  hopeless  calm,  what  storm  of  shaken  trust? 
Across  the  giant  waste  of  this  unknown 
Must  I  forever  send  my  questionings? 
Had  you  no  word  to  leave  me  for  my  own 
Before  you  went?     Must  my  imaginings 
Deem  you  forgot? — Or  did  you  heart  foretell 
That  time's  whole  later  hush  would  speak  farewell? 


PORTRAIT-PAINTER 

LVII 

Now  from  the  living  fountains  of  my  thought 

Spring  streams  of  comfort,  crystalline  and  mild, 

To  cool  the  wound  the  sudden  stroke  has  wrought 

And  bid  my  heart  in  peace  be  reconciled. 

My  spirit  whispers — "From  this  meteor  flown, 

Draw  knowledge  of  the  stars,  now  all  is  done. 

Assign  it  station  in  some  system  know^n, 

Part  of  the  ordered  brightness  round  the  sun." 

Good  counsel ! — reconcile,  transmute,  remould 

To  earth's  conglomerate  mass  this  unconfined 

Pilgrim  of  sky, — or  label  it,  grown  cold, 

To  edify  a  chaos-fearing  mind?  .   .   . 

Love,  love,  I  keep  memorial  of  you !     Nay ! — 

Unsolved,  bright,  lonely,  till  my  Judgment  Day! 


[65] 


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